Muslin by George Moore

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'If things get any worse, we might all retire into this castle. The
ladies will stand on the battlements, and I will undertake to hold the
place for ever against those village ruffians.'

'I do not think there will be any necessity for that,' replied Mr. Adair
sententiously. 'I think that these last terrible outrages have awakened
the Government to a sense of their responsibility. I have reason to
believe that immediate steps will be taken to crush this infamous
conspiracy.'

Lord Dungory interposed with a neat epigram, and Mr. Adair fell to
telling how he would crush the Land League out of existence if the
Government would place him in supreme power for the space of one month.

'That is all I would ask: one month to restore this island to peace and
prosperity. I have always been a Liberal, but I confess that I entirely
fail to understand the action the Government are taking in the present
crisis.'

As Lord Dungory was about to reply that he did not believe that the
peasants could continue to resist the Government indefinitely, the
police-sergeant in charge of the picnic-party approached, his face
overcast.

'We've just received bad news from Dublin, my lord. The worst. Lord
Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke were murdered this evening in the
Phoenix Park. It is unfortunately true, sir; I've the telegram with me.'
And he handed the yellow envelope to Lord Dungory, who, after glancing
at it, handed it on to Mr. Adair.

The appearance of the police in conversation with Lord Dungory and Mr.
Adair was a sign for the assembling of the rest of the company, and it
was under the walls of old Kinvarra Castle that the picnic-party heard
the awful news.

Then, in turn, each ejaculated a few words.

Mrs. Barton said: 'It is dreadful to think there are such wicked people
in the world.'

Mr. Adair said: 'There can be no doubt but that we have arrived at the
crisis; Europe will ring with the echoes of the crime.'

Olive said: 'I think they ought to hang Mr. Parnell; I believe it was he
who drove the car.'

Mr. Barton said: 'The landlords and Land-Leaguers will have to do what I
say; they will have to fight it out. Now, at their head, I believe by a
series of rapid marches--'

'Arthur, Arthur, I beg of you,' exclaimed Mrs. Barton.

'We shall all have to emigrate,' Sir Charles murmured reflectively.

'The law is in abeyance,' said Mr. Lynch.

'Precisely,' replied Milord; 'and as I once said to Lord Granville,
"_Les moeurs sont les hommes, mais la loi est la raison du pays_."'

Mr. Adair looked up; he seemed about to contest the truth of this
aphorism, but he relapsed into his consideration of Mr. Gladstone's
political integrity. The conversation had fallen, but at the end of a
long silence Mr. Ryan said:

'Begorra, I am very glad they were murthered.'

All drew back instinctively. This was too horrible, and doubt of Mr.
Ryan's sanity was expressed on every face.

At last Mr. Adair said, conscious that he was expressing the feelings of
the entire company: 'What do you mean, sir? Have you gone mad? Do you
not know that this is no fitting time for buffoonery?'

'Will ye hear me cousin out?' said Mr. Lynch.

'Begorra, I'm glad they were murthered,' continued Mr. Ryan; 'for if
they hadn't been we'd have been--there's the long and the short of it. I
know the counthry well, and I know that in six months more, without a
proper Coercion Act, we'd have been burned in our beds.'

The unanswerableness of Mr. Ryan's words, and the implacable certainty
which forced itself into every heart, that he spoke but the truth, did
not, however, make the company less inclined to oppose the utilitarian
view he took of the tragedy.

Unfinished phrases . . . 'Disgraceful' . . . 'Shocking' . . .
'Inconceivable' . . . 'That anyone should say such a thing' . . . were
passed round, and a disposition was shown to boycott Mr. Ryan.

Mr. Adair spoke of not sitting in the room where such opinions were
expressed, but Milord was seen whispering to him, 'We're not in a room,
Adair, we're out of doors;' and Mrs. Barton, always anxious to calm
troubled lives, suggested that 'people did not mean all they said.' Mr.
Ryan, however, maintained through it all an attitude of stolid
indifference, the indifference of a man who knows that all must come
back sooner or later to his views.

And presently, although the sting remained, the memory of the wasp that
had stung seemed to be lost. Milord and Mr. Adair engaged in a long and
learned discussion concerning the principles of Liberalism, in the
course of which many allusions were made to the new Coercion Bill,
which, it was now agreed, Mr. Gladstone would, in a few days, lay before
Parliament. The provisions of this Bill were debated. Milord spoke of an
Act that had been in force consequent on the Fenian rising in '69. Mr.
Adair was of opinion that the importance of a new Coercion Act could not
be over-estimated; Mr. Barton declared in favour of a military
expedition--a rapid dash into the heart of Connemara. But the
conversation languished, and in the ever-lengthening silences all found
their thoughts reverting to the idea brutally expressed by Mr. Ryan:
_Yes, they were glad; for if Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr. Burke had
not been assassinated, every landowner in the country would have been
murdered._

There was no dancing that evening; and as the night advanced the danger
of the long drive home increased in intensity in the minds of Messrs.
Lynch and Ryan. They sat on either side of Mr. Adair, and it was finally
arranged that they should join their police-forces, and spend the night
at his place. Sir Charles was sleeping at Brookfield; Milord had four
policemen with him; and as all would have to pass his gate, he did not
anticipate that even the Land League would venture to attack thirteen
armed men. Mr. Barton, who saw the picturesque in everything, declared,
when he came back, that they looked like a caravan starting for a
pilgrimage across the desert. After a few further remarks, the ladies
rose to retire; but when Mrs. Barton gave her hand to Lord Kilcarney, he
said, his voice trembling a little:

'I'm afraid I must leave you to-morrow, Mrs. Barton. I shall have to run
over to London to vote in the House of Lords. . .'

Mrs. Barton led the poor little man into the farther corner of the room,
and making a place for him by her side, she said:

'Of course we are very sorry you are leaving--we should like you to stop
a little longer with us. Is it impossible for you. . . ?'

'I am afraid so, Mrs. Barton; it is very kind of you, but--'

'It is a great pity,' she answered; 'but before we part I should like to
know if you have come to any conclusion about what I spoke to you of in
Dublin. If it is not to be, I should like to know, that I might tell the
girl, so that she might not think anything more about--'

'What am I to say, what am I to do?' thought the Marquis. 'Oh! why does
this woman worry me? How can I tell her that I wouldn't marry her
daughter for tens of thousands of pounds?' 'I think, Mrs. Barton--I
mean, I think you will agree with me that until affairs in Ireland grow
more settled, it would be impossible for anyone to enter into any
engagements whatever. We are all on the brink of ruin.'

'But twenty thousand pounds would settle a great deal.'

The little Marquis was conscious of annihilation, and he sought to
escape Mrs. Barton as he might a piece of falling rock. With a desperate
effort he said:

'Yes, Mrs. Barton--yes, I agree with you, twenty thousand pounds is a
great deal of money; but I think we had better wait until the Lords have
passed the new Coercion Bill--say nothing more about this--leave it an
open question.'

And on this eminently unsatisfactory answer the matter ended; even Mrs.
Barton saw she could not, at least for the present, continue to press
it. Still she did not give up hope. 'Try on to the end; we never know
that it is not the last little effort that will win the game,' was the
aphorism with which she consoled her daughter, and induced her to write
to Lord Kilcarney. And almost daily he received from her flowers,
supposed to be emblematical of the feeling she entertained for him; and
for these Alice was sometimes ordered to compose verses and suitable
mottoes.

XXIII

But Lord Kilcarney's replies to these letters seldom consisted of more
than a few well-chosen words, and he often allowed a week, and sometimes
a fortnight, to elapse before answering at all. Olive--too vain and
silly to understand the indifference with which she was treated--whined
and fretted less than might have been expected. She spent a great deal
of her time with Barnes, who fed her with scandal and flattery. But a
storm was about to break, and in August it was known, without any
possibility of a doubt, that the Marquis was engaged to Violet Scully,
and that their marriage was settled for the autumn.

And this marriage, and the passing of the Bill for the Prevention of
Crime, were the two interests present in the mind of Irish landlordism
during the summer of '82. Immediately the former event was publicly
announced, every girl in Dublin ran to her writing desk to confirm to
her friends and relatives the truth of the news which for the last two
months she had so resolutely anticipated. The famous Bertha, the terror
of the _debutantes_, rushed to Brookfield, but she did not get there
before the Brennans, and the result was a meeting of these families of
girls in Mrs. Barton's drawing-room. Gladys was, however, the person
chosen by God and herself to speak the wonderful words:

'Of course you have heard the news, Mrs. Barton?'

'No,' replied Mrs. Barton, a little nervously; 'what is it?'

'Oh yes, what is it?' exclaimed Olive. 'Anyone going to be married?'

'Yes. Can you guess?'

'No; tell me quick . . . no, do tell me. Are you going to be married?'

Had Olive been suddenly dowered with the wit of Congreve she could not
have contrived an answer that would have shielded her better from the
dart that Gladys was preparing to hurl. The girl winced; and divining
the truth in a moment of inspiration, Mrs. Barton said:

'Ah! I know; Lord Kilcarney is engaged to Violet Scully.'

The situation was almost saved, and would have been had Olive not been
present. She glanced at her mother in astonishment; and Gladys, fearing
utter defeat, hurled her dart recklessly.

'Yes,' she exclaimed, 'and their marriage is fixed for this autumn.'

'I don't believe a word of it. . . . You only say so because you think it
will annoy me.'

'My dear Olive, how can it annoy you? You know very well you refused
him,' said Mrs. Barton, risking the danger of contradiction. 'Gladys is
only telling us the news.'

'News, indeed; a pack of lies. I know her well; and all because--because
she didn't succeed in hooking the man she was after in the Shelbourne
last year. I'm not going to listen to her lies, if you are;' and on
these words Olive flaunted passionately out of the room.

'So very sorry, really,' exclaimed Zoe. 'We really didn't know . . .
indeed we didn't. We couldn't have known that--that there was any reason
why dear Olive wouldn't like to hear that Lord Kilcarney was engaged to
Violet.'

'Not at all, not at all. I assure you that whatever question there may
once have been, I give you my word, was broken off a long time ago; they
did not suit each other at all,' said Mrs. Barton. Now that she was
relieved of the presence of her young, the mother fought admirably. But
in a few minutes the enemy was reinforced by the arrival of the Hon.
Miss Gores.

'Oh, how do you do? I am so glad to see you,' said Mrs. Barton, the
moment they entered the room. 'Have you heard the news? all is
definitely settled between the little Marquis and Violet. We were all
talking of it; I am so glad for her sake. Of course it is very grand to
be a marchioness, but I'm afraid she'll find her coronet a poor
substitute for her dinner. You know what a state the property is in. She
has married a beggar. The great thing after all, nowadays, is money.'

It would have been better perhaps not to have spoken of Lord Kilcarney's
mortgages, but the Marquis's money embarrassments were the weak point in
Violet's marriage, but it would not be natural (supposing that Olive had
herself refused Lord Kilcarney) for her not to speak of them. So she
prattled on gaily for nearly an hour, playing her part admirably,
extricating herself from a difficult position and casting some
doubt--only a little, it is true, but a little was a gain on the story
that Olive had been rejected.

As soon as her visitors left the room, and she went to the window to
watch the carriages drive away and to consider how she might console her
daughter--persuade her, perhaps, that everything had happened for the
best.

'Oh, mamma,' she said, rushing into the room, 'this is terrible; what
shall we do--what shall we do?'

'What's terrible, my beautiful darling?'

Olive looked through her languor and tears, and she answered petulantly:

'Oh, you know very well I'm disgraced; he's going to marry Violet, and I
shall not be a marchioness after all.'

'If my beautiful darling likes she can be a duchess,' replied Mrs.
Barton with a silvery laugh.

'I don't understand, mamma.'

'I mean that we aren't entirely dependent on that wretched little
Marquis with his encumbered property; if he were fool enough to let
himself be entrapped by that designing little beast, Violet Scully, so
much the worse for him; we shall get someone far grander than he. It is
never wise for a girl to settle herself off the first season she comes
out.'

'It is all very well to say that now, but you made me break off with
dear Edward, who was ever so nice, and loved me dearly.'

Mrs. Barton winced, but she answered almost immediately:

'My dear, we shall get someone a great deal grander than that wretched
Marquis. There will be a whole crowd of English dukes and earls at the
Castle next year; men who haven't a mortgage on their property, and who
will all fight for the hand of my beautiful Olive. Mr. Harding, Alice's
friend, will put your portrait into one of the Society papers as the
Galway beauty, and then next year you may be her Grace.'

'And how will they do my portrait, mamma?'

'I think you look best, darling, with your hair done up on the top of
your head, in the French fashion.'

'Oh! do you think so? You don't like the way I have it done in now?'
said the girl; and, laughing, she ran to the glass to admire herself.
'Barnes said I looked sweet this morning;' and five minutes after she
was tossing her head nervously, declaring she was miserable, and often
she burst out crying for no assignable cause. Mrs. Barton consoled and
flattered gaily; but the sweet placid countenance was sometimes a little
troubled. As the girls left the breakfast-room one morning she said, as
if asking their advice:

'I have just received an invitation from Dungory Castle; they are giving
a tennis-party, and they want us to go to lunch.'

'Oh! mamma, I don't want to go,' cried Olive.

'And why, my dear?'

'Oh! because everybody knows about the Marquis, and I couldn't bear
their sneers; those Brennans and the Duffys are sure to be there.'

'Bertha's in Dublin,' said Mrs. Barton, in an intonation of voice a
little too expressive of relief.

'Gladys is just as bad; and then there's that horrid Zoe. Oh! I couldn't
bear it.'

'It will look as if we were avoiding them; they will only talk the more.
I always think it is best to put a bold face on everything.'

'I couldn't, I couldn't. I'm broken-hearted, that's what I am. I have
nothing to do or to think of.'

There could be little doubt that the Ladies Cullen had got up the
tennis-party so that they might have an opportunity of sneering at her,
but Milord would keep them in check (it might be as well to tell him to
threaten to put down the school if they did not keep a guard on their
tongues), and if Olive would only put a bold face on it and captivate
Sir Charles, this very disagreeable business might blow over. Further
than this Mrs. Barton's thoughts did not travel, but they were clear and
precise thoughts, and with much subtlety and insinuative force she
applied herself to the task of overcoming her daughter's weakness and
strengthening her in this overthrow of vanity and self-love. But to the
tennis-party they must go. Milord, too, was of opinion that they could
not absent themselves, and he had doubtless been able to arrive at a
very clear understanding with Lady Sarah and Lady Jane concerning the
future of Protestantism in the parish, for on the day of the
tennis-party no allusion was made to Lord Kilcarney's visit to
Brookfield; certain references to his marriage were, of course,
inevitable, but it was only necessary to question Mr. Adair on his views
concerning the new Coercion Act to secure for Mrs. Barton an almost
complete immunity from feminine sarcasm.

'I do not deny,' said Mr. Adair, 'that the Crimes Bill will restore
tranquillity, but I confess that I can regard no Government as
satisfactory that can only govern by the sword.'

These sentiments being but only very partially appreciated by the rest
of the company, the conversation came to an awkward pause, and Lady Jane
said as she left the room:

'I do not know a more able man on a county board than Mr. Adair. He took
honours at Trinity, and if he hasn't done as much since as we expected,
it is because he is too honourable, too conscientious, to ally himself
to any particular party.'

'That was always the way with Lord Dungory,' suggested Mrs. Gould.

Lady Jane bit her lip, and continued, without taking notice of the
interruption:

'Now, I hope Mr. Adair will not write a pamphlet, or express himself too
openly concerning the Crimes Act. The question of the day is the
organization of the Land Act, and I hear that Mr. Gladstone says it will
be impossible to get on without Mr. Adair's assistance.'

'Every six months,' said Mrs. Gould, 'it is given out that Gladstone
cannot go on without him; but somehow Gladstone does manage to get on
without him, and then we never hear any more about it.'

Lady Jane looked angry; and all wondered at Mrs. Gould's want of tact,
but at that moment the footman announced Messrs. Ryan and Lynch, and
Alice asked if she might go up to see Cecilia. More visitors arrived;
the Brennans, the Duffys, the five Honourable Miss Gores, and the
company adjourned to the tennis ground. Mr. Lynch was anxious to have
May for a partner, but she refused him somewhat pettishly, declaring at
the same time that she had given up tennis, and would never touch a
racquet again. Her continuous silence and dejected appearance created
some surprise, and her cheeks flushed with passion when her mother said
she didn't know what had come over May lately. Then obeying an impulse,
May rose to her feet, and leaving the tennis players she walked across
the pleasure grounds. Dungory Castle was surrounded by heavy woods and
overtopping clumps of trees. As the house was neared, these were filled
in with high laurel hedges and masses of rhododendron, and an opening in
the branches of some large beech-trees revealed a blue and beautiful
aspect of the Clare mountains.

'I wonder what May is angry about?' Cecilia said to Alice as they
watched the tennis playing from their window; 'suppose those horrid men
are annoying her.'

'I never saw her refuse to play tennis before,' Alice replied demurely.
And ten minutes after, some subtle desire of which she was not very
conscious led her through the shrubberies towards the place where she
already expected to find May. And dreaming of reconciliation, of a
renewal of friendship, Alice walked through the green summer of the
leaves, listening to the infinite twittering of the birds, and startled
by the wood-pigeons that from time to time rose boisterously out of the
high branches. On a garden bench, leaning forward, her hands rested on
her knees, May sat swinging her parasol from side to side, playing with
the fallen leaves. When she looked up, the sunlight fell full upon her
face, and Alice saw that she was crying. But affecting not to see the
tears, she said, speaking rapidly:

'Oh, May dear, I have been looking for you. The last time we--'

But interrupted here by a choking sob, she found herself forced to say:

'My dear May, what is the matter? Can I do anything for you?'

'Oh, no, no; only leave me; don't question me. I don't want anyone's
help.'

The ungraciousness of the words was lost in the accent of grief with
which they were spoken.

'I assure you I don't wish to be inquisitive,' Alice replied
sorrowfully, 'nor do I come to annoy you with good advice, but the last
time we met we didn't part good friends. . . . I was merely anxious to
assure you that I bore no ill-feeling, but, of course, if you--'

'Oh no, no,' cried May; reaching and catching at Alice's arm she pulled
her down into the seat beside her; 'I am awfully sorry for my rudeness
to you--to you who are so good--so good. Oh, Alice dear, you will
forgive me, will you not?' and sobbing very helplessly, she threw
herself into her friend's arms.

'Oh, of course I forgive you,' cried Alice, deeply affected. 'I had no
right to lecture you in the way I did; but I meant it for the best,
indeed I did.'

'I know you did, but I lost my temper. Ah, if you knew how sorely I was
tried you would forgive me.'

'I do forgive you, May dear; but tell me, cannot I help you now? You
know that you can confide in me, and I will do any thing in my power to
help you.'

'No one can help me now,' said the girl sullenly.

Alice did not speak at once, but at the end of a long silence she said:

'Does Fred Scully love you no more?'

'I do not know whether he does or not; nor does it matter much. He's not
in Ireland. He's far away by this time.'

'Where is he?'

'He's gone to Australia. He wrote to me about two months ago to say that
all had been decided in a few hours, and that he was to sail next
morning. He's gone out with some racehorses, and expects to win a lot of
money. He'll be back again in a year.'

'A year isn't long to wait; you'll see him when he comes back.'

'I don't think I should care to see him again. Oh, you were right,
Alice, to warn me against him. I was foolish not to listen to you, but
it was too late even then.'

Alice trembled; she had already guessed the truth, but hoping when she
knew all hope was vain, she said:

'You had better tell me, May; you know I am to be trusted.'

'Can't you guess it?'

The conversation fell, and the girls sat staring into the depths of the
wood. Involuntarily their eyes followed a small bird that ran up branch
after branch of a beech-tree, pecking as it went. It seemed like a toy
mouse, so quick and unvarying were its movements. At last May said, and
very dolorously:

'Alice, I thought you were kinder; haven't you a word of pity? Why tell
you, why ask me to tell you? Oh! what a fool I was!'

'Oh! no, no, May, you did right to tell me. I am more sorry for you than
words can express, and I didn't speak because I was trying to think of
some way of helping you.'

'Oh! there's no--no way of helping me, dear. There's nothing for me to
do but to die.' And now giving way utterly, the girl buried her face in
her hands and sobbed until it seemed that she would choke in thick
grief.

'Oh! May, May dear, you mustn't cry like that: if anyone were to come
by, what would they think?'

'What does it matter? Everyone will know sooner or later--I wish I were
dead--dead and out of sight for ever of this miserable world.'

'No, May,' said Alice, thinking instinctively of the child, 'you mustn't
die. Your trial is a terrible one, but people before now have got over
worse. I am trying to think what can be done.'

Then May raised her weeping face, and there was a light of hope in her
eyes. She clasped Alice's hand. Neither spoke. The little brown bird
pursued his way up and down the branches of the beech; beyond it lay the
sky, and the girls, tense with little sufferings, yearned into this
vision of beautiful peace.

At last Alice said: 'Did you tell Mr. Scully of the trouble? Does he
know--'

'He was away, and I didn't like to write it to him; his departure for
Australia took me quite by surprise.'

'Have you told your mother?'

'Oh no, I'd rather die than tell her; I couldn't tell her. You know what
she is.'

'I think she ought to be told; she would take you abroad.'

'Oh no, Alice dear; it would never do to tell mamma. You know what she
is, you know how she talks, she would never leave off abusing the
Scullys; and then, I don't know how, but somehow everybody would get to
know about it. But find it out they will, sooner or later; it is only a
question of time.'

'No, no, May, they shall know nothing of this--at least, not if I can
help it.'

'But you can't help it.'

'There is one thing quite certain; you must go away. You cannot stop in
Galway.'

'It is all very well talking like that, but where can I go to? A girl
cannot move a yard away from home without people wanting to know where
she has gone.'

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